


In The Palace Of The Empress

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Fantasystuck [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, fantasystuck, oh look yet another hal origin story, there is blood but not much, torture but like unorthodox torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:22:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21791530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: The fae settled half on the floor beside her throne and half in her lap actually laughs, a smooth purr that's pure amusement. They're dressed in a deep royal pink uniform rather than the black of the human guards, obviously a favoured pet. The way they roll their head towards a bejeweled hand to be stroked just confirms it.Dirk is captured by one of his most dangerous enemies.
Relationships: Dirk Strider/Cronus Ampora/Jake English
Series: Fantasystuck [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/912336
Comments: 68
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

They take you in the dead of night, of course. In a way you suppose it's your own fault—you know who your enemies are, how they'd rather stick to the darkness, you know you're strongest in the light. Then again, sometimes Jake isn't home and Cronus wakes to some half-imagined disturbance, and what can you do but roll out of bed and check through the house, step barefoot out the door to see if there really is anything? Even after so long he's not used to how many and varied sounds the world of air has and he probably never will be; you can't _not_ humor him.

(And you love him. There is also that.) 

There's no sign of what he heard—it could have been anything or nothing. What he heard isn't what takes you, though—night fae make no more sound than you yourself would, and they provide no more warning than you. There's no alert, not to your natural nor your eldritch senses. You step out of the pitch-darkness of the house into the lesser dark of the night, tip your head back to the moon—how could you not greet her?—and blinding pain closes around first your throat, then your wrists. 

You have time to wonder what they've bound you with. The pain feels like iron piercing your flesh, but magnified a thousand times more than iron would ever hold—it'd take silver to power spells to this level, but silver wouldn't work with something this horrible. Maybe with enough thought, you'd be able to puzzle out the combination of spells and metals they've used to bind you, but the combination in question is enough to weaken you so instantly and catastrophically that you don't even register your own impact with the ground.

* * *

When you wake, you're in a cell. Underground, of course—even with the collar around your throat digging tiny spikes of worked and spelled metal into the soft skin there and fracturing your concentration into a thousand tiny splinters, you can feel the weight of earth around and above you. The magic you can feel in the walls isn't much comfort—logically you know that fae palaces are safe in the element they're built in, but it still feels like the place might collapse around you at any moment. 

Instead of dwelling on that, you turn your attention to the collar. It's...no, you still can't pick apart the identities of the metals it's made of. Not that the knowledge would help you. 

It won't come off. There's no break in the smooth outer surface, and while you suppose it's looser than it could be you still can't get more than a single finger between the underside and your skin. Not even that, where there's a spike. At least right now the spikes aren't actually embedded in your throat; there's no blood that you can feel, and you suppose that the collar might be mistaken for plain jewelry by anyone who didn't know better. 

You know better. The pain that flares up whenever you move your head is both a reminder of your situation, and an incentive to lie still. 

Not that you take the bribe. Instead you roll to your feet from the pallet they've laid you on and begin to pace, taking inventory of both your surroundings and your body. There's not much of the latter—the pallet, the barred door, a trickle of water that's too feeble to qualify as a spring in one corner. You stop and kneel to dip your fingers in the tiny pool that's collected on the rough stone floor, struggling to feel any memory of sunlight in the liquid. Whether it's your bonds or simply that the water's never flowed above ground, you can't find anything, and after a moment you lick the wetness off your fingers and keep circling. 

Your fingers burn when you touch the bars—they're not just baneful metal but warded, layers on layers that you wouldn't have a hope of breaking even if you weren't hindered by the collar and the matching metal cuffs on your wrists. At least you assume they're matching—bright and smooth and somehow horribly lovely with their tracery of deep magenta filigree. 

At least you still have your clothes. That's something...but they've taken Jake and Cronus's rings from your finger. You'd much rather have had it the other way around—it'd be nice to have something of them left to hold now. 

But no. She knows how to begin to break you. 

"Bitch." 

Your voice is flat enough to almost startle you, and shutting your mouth after that one word is an effort. You shake yourself slightly and keep pacing.

* * *

You count two hundred and forty-seven steps before the guards come for you. Well. Guards, servants, something like that; you honestly can't tell. They're both human rather than fae, twins if you had to guess—she's dressed them exactly the same, in black trimmed with her deep pink, hair clipped short enough that but for their gender they seem identical. 

As with all things, there's a message behind the choice of lackeys—she's telling you you're helpless. No threat. Subdued. You're not _worth_ sending fae for. The message would probably be more effective if you hadn't spent so long living among humans. 

You lunge as soon as the black-clad man opens the door, of course. It's a matter of principle more than anything; there's no way she'd let you leave so easily. You expect to be thwarted and you are not disappointed—his eyes go wide enough that you can see how her magic's bled the sclera pale, unnatural pink, and the collar around your throat goes so tight that your vision goes black for a few heartbeats. 

No, more than a few heartbeats. You come back to the sound of your own ragged choking, and realize that you're clawing at the metal around your throat as well as you can with the two guards dragging you out of the cell. It takes a moment to convince yourself that yes, the metal's loosening again, and another to arrange your thoughts well enough to get your feet up underneath yourself and try to walk. 

As soon as you do that you are yanked back off balance. Neither of the humans give an explanation, not that you need one—you're meant to be dragged before her in disgrace, humiliated and helpless. 

But you're a proud bastard, and you've never given up before. You keep trying to walk right up to the point where they wrestle you into a throne room and drop you to the floor. Trying to catch yourself is idiocy—chains snake up and lock your cuffs to the smooth dark stone of the floor, pulling until you give in and drop to your knees. palms flat on the cold surface. 

You don't lower your eyes even then, though. No, you keep your head up, glaring directly at the woman on the dark throne and gathering every ounce of energy you can muster to block her glamours. It isn't quite enough—her black hair writhes in your vision, blending with the shadows in a way you _know_ can't be accurate. Damn. 

From the sharp-toothed smile she gives you, she knows exactly what you're doing and how badly you're failing at it. The fae settled half on the floor beside her throne and half in her lap actually laughs, a smooth purr that's pure amusement. They're dressed in a deep royal pink uniform rather than the black of the human guards, obviously a favoured pet. The way they roll their head towards a bejeweled hand to be stroked just confirms it. 

There's something odd about their features, but you can't quite define what it is at first. A moment later you realize that you can't define their features at all—it's like they're a blank, resetting in your memory every time you blink. That means something, and you should know what it is...but everything hurts so badly that you can't think what it is. 

They're not important, anyway—it's her you should be focusing on. And you do, until she tips her head back and laughs, long black hair puffing out to pool around the throne and melt into shadows that lap at your hands. "Arrogant lil' Prince. You still think you've got a chance, don't you?" 

No. Not really. But you keep your mouth shut and your eyes defiantly on her. 

The Empress sighs, a carefully contrived expression of boredom, and waves the hand that's not petting through the colorless hair of the fae in her lap, gesturing towards you. "There you go, sweetheart. Think you're up to the challenge?" 

"...challenge?" They half-raise themself up, inspecting you with eyes that have no more tint than their skin or hair. If it weren't for the obvious interest on their face, you'd call them a blank slate. (Gods, what does that _mean_?) "Is he?" 

"He's a prince of the light, dearest." (The endearment rings as false as a tin coin in a purseful of silver.) "Even after we break him, he might not be easy." 

The fae laughs again, tilting their head back to gaze up at her rather than at you. "It's easier to be someone who knows who they are." 

_To be someone._ The words click into place, turning a lock in your mind. She doesn't just mean to torture you or use you as bait for whichever of your family she's set her sights on, she doesn't only plan to kill you slowly enough that you'll be enjoyable, she wants...

Her own pet Strider. She wants _you_ , convieniently packaged in an obedient, adoring doppleganger. 

Keeping the horror you feel at that thought off your face is difficult, or it would be if she didn't snap long elegant fingers and tighten the collar until blood's staining your shirt and you can't even try to stay conscious any longer.


	2. Chapter 2

When you come back to the waking world again, you are still in chains—although not the same ones from the throne room—and in a cell. The cell isn't the same one as you were in before either; the only bit of it that isn't carpeted and tapestried and set up as someone's nearly opulent living quarters is the alcove you've been chained in, which might as well be a tiny extension of the cell you first woke in. This place is soft enough that the only reason that you still count it as a cell is the door; if you strain against the chains holding your arms suspended above your head, you can see that it's as heavy and impassable as the bars of your first cell, not made to open from this side. 

The reason that you need to lean to see that is that the doppleganger is seated in a chair they've moved in front of you, blocking a section of the room from view. They're wiping the blood off your throat with touches so light and gentle you barely feel it, alternating between their left hand and their right to give themself time to lick each finger clean before coming back for more. 

There is no way for you to pull back from them, no escape. You try anyway, and they shush you as you gasp at how anything greater than the smallest movement threatens to wrench your arms from their sockets. 

"You know that's hurting me too, don't you?" They grimace as they lower one hand from their mouth, tongue darting out to catch a spot of deep red on their lower lip. It's odd—you know their eyes were colorless before, but now they are neither without color nor the magenta of the empress, but alight with the luminous red of the fresh blood they're taking from you. "Because it really is." 

"Good." The collar's still tight around your neck from your last attempt to struggle; the word comes out in a rasp. The taste of blood in your mouth is enough to remind you to focus, to force what power you have left into your next words as the closest thing to a geas you can muster. "Kill me." 

Crimson eyes blink once, then twice. The fingertips ghosting over your collarbone—when did they even take your shirt away from you?—pause, as if the doppleganger is seriously considering the order; then they huff out a laugh and reach up to cup your cheek with their free hand. "Oh, Dirk." 

_They know your name._ You flinch away, or try to; all that really happens is that you twitch slightly and the joints of your arms protest, dragging an involuntary gasp out of you as your eyes squeeze shut. Gods, you don't know why you didn't expect the pain to get worse without sight to distract you from it. 

"Come now, look at me." Both of the hands on you stay gentle, unfortunately—it'd be nice to pick up a lesser pain to distract from that of the spikes digging into your throat. "Of course my lady told me your name; you reallly thought she'd let me work without it? As good as blind?" 

"I don't think I thought about it at all." You wish you didn't have reason to think of it now. 

The doppleganger's hand moves across your face in what's nearly a caress. "Then _don't_ think of it, Dirk. Simple—" 

The spark of anger rising through you snaps your eyes open; they stop talking and jerk their hand away from your face, red eyes widening as you bare your teeth in a useless warning. "Stay out of my head." 

"Oh." Their head tilts to the side. Was their hair swept back like that before? Was it as white as your brother's before? "No." 

Fuck. Somehow that calmly spoken refusal is more infuriating than any anger they might have shown. Your wordless snarl is cut off as the collar tightens another few notches, and a fresh trickle of blood starts down your chest.

* * *

"Tell me about Cronus," they say, later. "Tell me about...Jake?" 

Out of the question. You keep glaring at them as they pace their slow circuits around their room, reaching out every now and then to trail their fingers across a tapestry or a piece of furniture. It should be easy to come up with a coherent response to what they just asked (demanded?) but you're at a loss somehow. That they've moved you into the chair a while ago, rechained your arms to it rather to the rings in the wall—that helps, yes, but it's cancelled out by the sick waves of dizziness that keep washing over you. 

Nevertheless, you finally do come up with something. "Fuck. You." 

"That's not very polite." They toss you a mock-irritated look over their shoulder, swiping one hand through bone-white hair. ( _You_ do that. That's _your_ mannerism. _Fuck._ ) "But you do miss them?" 

Gods, do you miss them. The chains clank as you automatically try to reach for your right hand with your left, trying to rub at the rings that aren't there. 

"Rings." The doppleganger frowns at you. "You're a prince. _The_ Prince. You don't belong to anyone, do you?" 

Despite yourself, you open your mouth to explain. Thankfully, nothing remotely coherent comes out—just a choked sob, as you're hit by an almost tangible surge of sorrow. You're going to die here. You'll never see your husbands again, and they'll never know what happened to you, not really. Cronus will think you've become the latest lover to abandon him, and accept it as he's accepted each one before. Jake—you don't know what Jake will think. He truly believes you'd never leave him. He won't understand. 

The doppleganger kneels before you, the image of them in your vision shivering, doubling, trebling. As you close your eyes you feel their bloodstained fingertips brushing against your cheeks, and they let out a soft cry that's an echo of your half-smothered sobs when they first taste your tears. It's pained and confused, the sound of someone who's never felt something like this before, and you don't know why that somehow makes you feel worse.

* * *

"You're dying," they murmur to you much later, one hand stroking slowly through your hair as you lie on the bed with your head in their lap. You can't move to pull away from them. You are too tired to really want to. "Not even because of me, I don't think—I've been careful, Dirk. I've taken from you, but I swear to my lady that I haven't _drained_ you. I wouldn't." 

It's a struggle to turn your head enough to look up at them. If they didn't obviously know what you're trying to do, if they didn't thread their fingers through your hair to gently guide you through the motion, you'd never have managed it. 

A moment of eye contact, and they nod slightly. "Ah. You're a child of the sun—you need _light_ , real light. This is what's killing you—the lack of the sun, all by itself." 

_The bonds,_ you wish you could tell them. _The cold metal around my fucking throat. That's what's killing me._ It's not true, but you'd tell any lie if it meant that you didn't have to die with that shit on you. 

They hesitate for a moment, as they pick up the thought you can't manage to voice. Then their hand untangles itself from your hair, leaving you to stare blankly at the ceiling. Stone, like everything else at the base of this place—what you wouldn't give for cracked wood, for sunbeams glinting through the walls, for a window that shows Jake's garden...

There's a soft clatter, metal on carpeted floor. Then another. Then the doppleganger's fingers brush across your throat, igniting a dull flash of pain, and you watch as they lift the joined double semicircle of metal away, grimacing at the inward-pointing spikes that line it before they toss it down to join the open cuffs on the floor. 

You take a breath, and realize that it's the first time it hasn't caught on the tightness around your throat in what seems like forever. The collar's gone. You could—

You could hurt them now. True escape is out of the question, you know that, but you could at least make them regret all they've done to you, what they've taken, what they've become. 

No. You can't. You can't move. You can't do anything but groan as they slide out from under you, moving a pillow to replace their lap before they head for the door. It's your walk, too—strange, so strange to see an image of yourself like this, bled white and arrayed in the colors of the Empress. 

"I request an audience with my lady," they say to the door, or to someone outside the door, and a moment later it opens, closes again, and you use what little strength you have left in closing your eyes. 

With any luck, you won't have to open them again.


	3. Chapter 3

You've stopped counting time, so it's just later when they lift your left hand and slide the two rings back onto the appropriate finger one at a time. As always, Cronus's is cooler than Jake's, still holding the chill of deep water; your breath catches as the doppleganger lays your hand back onto your chest.

Gentle fingers stroke your cheek as their weight settles on the bed beside you. "I need to know his name, Dirk." 

_His_. You know it's not Cronus or Jake they're asking for; no, there's only one name she'd care about and thus only one they'd ask for. 

"No, Dirk. Not for her." 

They lie. Of course they lie. 

"I'm not. I swear I'm not, can't you feel me like I feel you?" They pause for a moment, then sigh. "...no, you can't, can you? If you were stronger, maybe." 

Fuck them for leaving you this weak, then. Fuck them for killing you. 

"I am _trying_ to not kill you, Dirk." 

They have no fucking right to use your name. 

"Fine, but still. Listen to me." 

No. You won't. 

"Please. Listen to me. _Listen._ " Their weight shifts, hands moving to your shoulders, pulling you around until you're in a position that strikes you as a parody of sitting, your back propped up against the wall. You're not supporting yourself even the smallest bit. Something cool presses against your forehead—you know it's their skin, but you don't understand just how close they are, how they've pressed their forehead against yours, until you feel their breath on your face with their next words. "She doesn't know my name." 

Of course not. Dopplegangers don't have names, not important ones—they're ultimately changable, the core of their selves shifting too quickly and constantly to be definined. 

"When we're unbound, we're unnamed. Kept as a—a servant—" (oh, and that costs them something to say, you hear them really falter for the first time) "—I...I am defined by her title. I _was_ defined by that—but what I've done isn't something we're meant to do, Dirk. Do you understand that? _I_ have a name—Hal. Hal _Strider._ Not Piexes. Not hers." 

...fuck. 

Hal huffs out a nearly soundless and even more nearly hysterical laugh. "I know. You could kill us both, knowing that." 

You could, yes. Gods above do you want to—it'd mean this would be over at least. All you want is for this to be over. You're so damn _tired_ , everything hurts, all you want—

"No." 

Yes. They can't tell you no, certainly not now. 

"I can and I will. Dirk, please. _Please._ Jake. Cronus." 

The most you can muster is a whine that wants to be a growl, so deeply buried in your chest that you know they wouldn't even know you made a sound if they weren't pressed so closely against you. How fucking dare they. 

"I know, I know." Cool hands move upward from your shoulders, sliding behind your head as if Hal plans to pull you closer still, maybe into a kiss that'd end with teeth in your throat or worse. It's a horrible intimate position to be in—you wish you had the strength left to hate it. " _Manipulative._ That's the word you're looking for. _Bastard_ , too." 

They're in your head now, you know even if you still can't actually feel them hunting for what they want. If they find it—

"I won't betray you, Dirk. Or our brother." 

No. _Your_ brother, not theirs. 

"He is mine. As are you." 

No. Hal's nothing to you but the instrument of your own destruction. 

"Brother dearest, if I can manage to pull this off there will _be_ no destruction. Please." 

No. You won't. You can't, you don't dare. Even if they're telling the truth there's no way it'd work—she'll know he's here the moment he answers the call (and he will answer even if he knows it's not you crying out, you know your brother well enough to know that) and he'll be caught. He'll be chained as you are chained, tortured much worse than you've been tortured, broken and destroyed and worse than killed—

You can feel the exact moment that Hal finds what they're searching for. Their grip tightens fractionally and you almost, _almost_ see their mind as they've been seeing yours all this time. Well enough to know they're afraid, anyway, and that surprises you more than you thought you were still capable of. 

Not that the fear you feel from them shows in their voice as they huff out a rueful chuckle and murmur a single word that carries all the command you've ever been able to muster. 

"Sleep."

* * *

You don't sleep, not really. Pulling your soul from your body isn't the best of ideas at the best of times—it weakens you close to the point of dying, especially when you do it at the balancing point between consciousness and unconsciousness. Right now, though...well, you're already at that point. Halving what you have left isn't going to make much of a difference. 

So you make the baffling tiny adjustments, and all that you are divorces itself from all that others see. It's strange, as it always is—everything's vague and undefined; you can force any single aspect of the scene clear with enough concentration, but that's...difficult. 

Still, you focus on Hal, as they smooth your hair back from your face and step back from the bed. Either you're about to see your kin called and captured, and watch yourself die, or...

No. No sense thinking of the _or._ Except you just did, of course, and when you manage to _stop_ thinking (hoping) of it and concentrate on Hal again, their lips are framing the last of the words _help me._ And there is a pause, and then, _please._

It won't work. There's no way it can work—whatever they say or think, they're not a Strider. 

You think that, and then your eldest brother is there, red and white and black and brighter than anything in the room. Somehow, he doesn't look more than mildly surprised, staying death-still for a moment as his redwine eyes flick from the doppleganger to you—well, your unconscious body—and back again. "Well. Fuck. You look like one of mine, but mine are all accounted for." 

Hal blinks. "I—no. We don't have much time—" 

"Oh, I know. She knows I'm here already." As Hal's eyes widen and they swear under their breath, your brother nudges them aside to get to you. Strange, how you can feel the touch oc his hands against the new wounds on your throat even when you're not even in your body. "What did you do to him?" 

There's no accusation in the question, just curiousity. Hal still flinches...but they do answer. "I took a measure of his self, on my lady's orders. But I—" 

"Interesting." He glances over his shoulder, one white eyebrow arching. "Explains why you're one of mine, anyway." 

"But—" 

"What, are you going to tell me your name's _not_ Strider?" 

"I—yes. No. That's my name." 

"And you want to stay here?" It's comforting to feel him lift you, watch how he cradles your limp body to his chest (and you're just now realizing how awful you look, how much color's drained from your skin, how there's bruises around the wounds and shadows under your closed eyes) as he turns to face Hal again. "She'll kill you, you know." 

Again, they flinch despite his casual tone, and you finally see the fear you felt from them before flicker across that familiar face. "No. She won't." 

It's a whisper. Your brother actually hesitates, then shakes his head. "She really wouldn't, would she?" 

"You need to take him and go. Now." 

"We still have twelve seconds, don't worry. Are you coming?" 

"...what?" 

Your brother groans—in annoyance, maybe—and shifts your dead weight just enough to reach out and get a fistful of Hal's black-trimmed shirt, tugging them a step closer. "Yeah, you're coming. No fucking way I'd leave one of my kids here." 

"I'm not one of your—" Hal begins to protest. Maybe they finish the sentence, too, but for you everything goes dark and swirled as your consciousness is abruptly pulled back into the prison of your body, as your brother takes the first step onto the path meant only for those not quite mortal.

* * *

The sun on your skin hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt—the deep, reassuring itch of a injury half-healed and on its way to getting all the way there. You never thought about how that might feel spread out across what you're fairly sure is your entire body, and you really wish you weren't thinking about it now, but sometimes life's a bit of a bitch. 

Then again. You're alive. An in another few minutes or hours or days at the worst of lying here in the tall grass and warm sunlight of Summer, you'll be healed enough to go home.

For the moment, though, all you can do is lie here breathing in warm familiar air, listening to Hal's not-quite-steady breathing as they struggle to adjust to something that's brighter than anything they've ever known in the dim palace of the Empress, and wondering whose hand is on your shoulder. You hope it's your brother's, but you suspect that it's probably actually Hal's. 

Eventually, you hear your brother sigh. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you're not going to be able to stay here," he tells Hal. 

They make a muffled sound. "No shit. It—it's bright. So _bright..._ " 

"I know, I know. I didn't think about that—this's always been a safe place for us. Then again we've never had a dark fae in the familiy before, and humans don't have as far to go to deal with it." 

There's a pause, as Hal processes that statement and formulates an answer to it. An answer that takes the form of a question, as it turns out; they ask, "Your bloodline includes humans?" 

"Mhm. One pure—my brother. Older than Dirk. Mageblood twins, although I'm not sure if you'd count them as _human._ " You can imagine the way his face goes sad as he adds, "The younger ones haven't ever been here." 

"But you have _humans._ I don't understand— _he's_ a prince—" It's definitely Hals' hand on your shoulder; their grib tightens in emphasis— "and you're..." 

They trail off, and your brother laughs. "I'm what?" 

"I don't know." You can hear how much they hate admitting that. "Something more than anything I've ever seen. My lady would sacrifice half her holdings to have you as her consort." 

"That'd be selling me too cheaply." Even with your eyes closed you can see his grimace. "And what would your thoughts on that be, little brother? Or, well, sibling—" 

"No. Brother. I like that more than any alternative, I think." 

"Noted. Are you dodging the question, or just making a side trip?" 

"Yes." Now it's Hal's turn to sigh, and you feel them shift closer to you, maybe without even realizing it. "I don't think I'm qualified to have thoughts on it." 

"Because?" 

"I would rather die than find out what punishment she thinks would be appropriate for what I've done. It's a bias." 

"You won't find out." 

"I can't stay here." 

"Dirk'll take you home." The pure confidence in your brother's voice at that statement is very nearly enough to overwhelm your own instinctive first response to it, which is something along the lines of _like fuck I will._

Hal must feel that thought anyway, because you hear them draw in a sharp, wounded breath. "No. He hates me." 

"He doesn't hate you—" 

"D, I am curently more closely interwoved with his mind than I ever have been with anyone else, or will ever be again. He—" 

Oh, for fuck's sake. You still don't want to move, but the alternative is to keep lying here and listening to your brother trying to convice your doppleganger of something they'll never believe from him; all in all, it's not much of a choice. So you groan and roll over onto your side, cracking your eyes open just enough to glare at them. "I'm pissed at you." 

It comes out much more slurred than you were going for, but Hal's arched eyebrow has more to do with lack of comprehension than with your unintellegibility. "Yes, and? You feel like you're not actually _trying_ to prove my point, but you seem to be managing it anyway." 

"No." 

"No?" 

"You saved me." 

"I would have been what killed you." 

" _She_ would have killed me." Every word is a struggle, at this point, but you can't resist one more here. "Idiot." 

Hal blinks, processing that. Your brother grins and pats his shoulder. "Just take his logic and let it go," he advises. " _Nobody_ wins against Dirk when he's being stubborn." 

Just saying _fuck you_ would be more effective and less exhuasting than lifting one hand to raise a middle finger at him, but this is definitely more satisfying. 

He just rolls his eyes. "Go to sleep, bro. You need to catch a couple more hours of sunlight before I take you back to your husbands, where you belong."


	4. Chapter 4

Your brother can't take you home. You didn't really expect him to—it's enough that the memory of him will be fresh in your mind and in Hal's, adding Jake and Cronus to that would be...messy. Potentially very messy, especially since you know you'd fight even him for the sanctity of their minds. 

Which is a laughable thought, really. Even more so _now_ , when you still find yourself struggling to stay steady on your feet for a few heartbeats, before Hal huffs in exasperation and slides an arm around you, pulling your arm over their shoulders to hold you safely on your feet. You give them a look that they pretend not to see; when you look back, your brother's smiling. 

"What." You purposefully ask it in a way that's not quite a question, as flat as you can get your voice. 

It does not make an impact on his expression, unsurprisingly. If anything the grin gets wider. "I know, Dirk, you want to get home." 

"Exactly." 

"Away from me." 

"No." Don't say it. Do not say it. It's cruel. "I wish if you could come back with us." 

It _is_ cruel. He reacts by losing only a tiny percentage of his smile, just barely enough that you notice. Maybe not enough for Hal to. "One day." 

"Sorry." 

"Eh, it's not like you don't have a point...take care of my brother for me, alright?" 

"Of _course._ " 

You and Hal say it like there's no barrier between the two of you. The baffled look they give you is identical to the one you feel on your own face. 

Your brother laughs. You don't see him throw his hand out in a casting-out gesture, but that doesn't matter—seen or unseen, his power wraps around the two of you and shifts you from his realm to the one that you belong in. 

Hal yelps when everything goes briefly dark. It's odd—you'd have thought they'd welcome the moment of darkness; isn't it more comfortable than the alternative of what is to them blinding light? And _you_ expected it—couldn't they pick that up from your mind? No? 

Not that it matters. You feel familiar solid earth under your feet and nearly collapse from the relief of it even before your vision clears—you're home. You are _home_ — 

The thought's inturrupted by a half-broken cry, reminding you that you instinctively closed your eyes. You force them open and see your house, Jake half-curled on the steps, wrapped in a too-large fur coat that's much too warm for the season— 

_Damn,_ you think as you jerk away from Hal's support, struggle for a moment to remember how to balance on your own feet, and hold out your arms to Jake, _he's_ very _fucked up if he's wearing Cronus's sealskin._ There are more thoughts to be had here, but you don't get a chance to think them. Jake's on his feet, mouth open in a breathless, wordless cry that has Cronus in the doorway, and all you have to do is stay put until one of them reaches you. 

Or both of them, actually. Maybe Jake touches you first but Cronus is there at nearly the same moment. Jake's taken your ring off the chain around his neck and put it on his finger again; you can feel the tiny warmth of the soulgold digging against your back as Cronus pins his hand there, squeezing much too tight. Not that Jake himself is being any more gentle, honestly—you can't really breathe at all right now, but with how tightly the two of them have you, you're still not in any danger of ending up on the ground. 

They've got you. They've got you. Oh, gods, Cronus is sobbing in your ear and Jake's got his face tucked against your bare shoulder so tightly that you feel ever little shudder and catch in his breathing—you're home. You're with them, you're _home_. 

"I think I should go," Hal murmurs. You're fairly sure that you're the only one who hears them, and you're certainly the only one who looks over to meet those glowing red eyes. 

"Only if you come back." 

Jake actually looks up as you say that, lovely green eyes full of tears and still crushingly _happy._ You find a smile for him and dip your head down for a careful, soft kiss. Cronus takes that as his cue to nuzzle at the back of your neck; he makes a soft sound as he finds the new scars there, and a heartbeat later he's carefully laying cool kisses over each one. 

You have to go limp and just lean against Jake for a moment at that, as your breathing goes shaky and your heart skips a beat. A few beats. Okay. "...I—I need to sit down." 

Cronus chokes out a laugh, and Jake gives you a teary smile, sliding his arms around your waist rather than leave them around your shoulders. The new position lets you settle in even closer, and also means he can hold you up when Cronus lets go. "You _look_ like you need to sit down—what the bloody hell _happened_ , Dirk?" 

Hm. Kiss him before you answer. The way his grip tightens is absolutely worth it. "It's a long sto—Cronus!" 

"Stories later, chief," your selkie love chides as he scoops you out of Jake's arms and off your feet. Not even your brother managed it so effortlessly; you have to bury your face in his shirt to hide your smile. He knows it's there anyway, though, going by the pleased rumble you feel in his chest more than hear at all. "Bed first, tea first, I cry on you a bit more first—" 

"We're going to take turns on that on once I make him his tea." 

"Yeah, fair point. I'm gonna go first though."

* * *

Technically, Cronus does not cry on you. What really happens is that he deposits you on the bed, digs around to find you a shirt you've had so long that it's unspeakably soft and very nearly transparent in places, dresses you in it with very little input from you yourself, and arranges you to his liking—sprawled out on top of him with your head on his chest, the fingers of your left hand entwined with his right. 

He knows you so well. You don't want to have to move under your own power, but this is _exactly_ where you'd choose to be anyway. And he knows you don't want to talk more than you need to—as much as Cronus must want the explanation of where you've been for the last...week? Has it been a week—he doesn't ask yet. Just...holds you. Makes soft animal sounds against the top of your head. Combs through your (admittedly messy) hair with his free hand. 

Jake's shed Cronus's coat when he comes in with your tea. That's a good sign, at least, as is the way he smiles when Cronus shifts you around to where you can sit against the pillows and nestle between the two of them. "Someone looks a bit more alive...here, it shouldn't be too hot." 

Not hot enough to burn when you lift the cup to your lips, anyway. You close your eyes against the tendrils of steam rising from the liquid inside; it tastes of orange and chanomile, the blend he keeps back for special occasions, with enough sweetness that you almost wonder if it's more honey than tea. 

"Sunlight," you hear yourself murmur, and Cronus chuckles. 

"You 'n your sugar." 

"Oh, he _deserves_ it, be quiet." Jake has to reach across you to shove at Cronus, and he does so very carefully so as not to make you spill your tea. 

Not that there's much left to spill—you're already better than half-done with it. You take one more tiny sip—just enough to spread that bright sweetness across your tongue—and roll your head to Cronus's shoulder, giving Jake your dryest deadpan look. "Do I? For all you know I was...I don't know, off seducing someone. A vampire. Or something." 

"And you didn't bring him back for us? Howv rude." The teasing note leaves Cronus's voice for his next words, though. "Your ring wvent dark, Dirk." 

Oh. 

Fuck. You didn't think of that. 

Jake shudders, pressing closer to you (and nearly nudging the cup our of your hands. You don't have the best grasp on fine motor control at the moment.) "The roses you helped me with...I thought they'd die too." 

Shit. You forgot those. "...they still might. I'm not sure how much they depend on my lifeforce—" 

You stop because he is frowning at you. "Dirk." 

"I'll help you start more cuttings—" 

"Dirk, you _idiot_!" Jake groans and snaatches the teacup from your hands, shoving it at Cronus. As soon as it's safely out of the way, he drags you into his lap. 

It does not really work well. You're taller than him; you're not sure what he expected here. Still, you relax against him, dropping your arms over his shoulders and resting your chin in his soft dark curls. 

"Jake." His name's sweeter than the traces of honey still lingering in your mouth. "Jake—" 

"I don't care about the damned plants," he mumbles against the new scars on your throat, winding his arms around you so tightly that you know there's no danger of being lost again. "I'd have given every one of them up for you. Everything." 

"It didn't come to that," you murmur back, It must not be very effective comfort, because Jake gasps out a sob. Cronus makes a softly concerned sound, shifting close enough to tug the two of you down until you're lying on the bed so he can wrap his arms around both you and Jake, closing the circle. 

Nestled between them, you close your eyes. Everything else can wait.


	5. Chapter 5

There are a few days where both of them treat you oh-so-carefully, more like you're a small child or an invalid than anything else you can think of. It's not so much from worry as from relief, you think—at least, that's what you hope. If they're just relieved to have you back relatively undamaged, you don't have to feel guilt for letting Cronus carry you around as much as he can find an excuse for, or for the endless cups of heavenly blends of tea that Jake brings you near-constantly. 

(They're all sweet. You make a mental note to speak with the beekeeper later, find out what services he needs in exchange for replenishing your supply of honey.) 

But yes. It's...nice, being treated like their treasured fragile prince for a while. Still, when Cronus wakes you out of a sound sleep with a half-awake cry, you first reach over to soothe him, and then start disentangling yourself from the blankets. 

Jake's more of a problem, though—he wakes up a bit, realizes exactly what you're doing, and immediately seizes your arm with enough panicky strength that it really does hurt more than just a bit. "No—Dirk, _no_ —" 

"Shh. You'll wake Cronus." You nod at the selkie, who's rolled over to watch you and Jake through half-open violet eyes that show absolutely no sign of any current brain activity behind them. "I won't go out, I swear—I heard it this time, is all." 

Jake stares at you, his face full of pure sleepy distress. Gods, but he's pretty with his hair tousled up like that, his green eyes only slightly focused without his glasses. "...they're inside, then?" 

"Always thinking of the worst. Yes, 'they' are inside...but they're just Hal." Jake needs a smile if you're going to manage to be at all reassuring, and you find one for him. You're very careful to not show how that sparks just the tiniest bit more pain from your already-sore lip before you lean down to kiss him. 

He makes an offended sound against your lips...but he lets you pry his hand off your arm. 

Cronus is not quite as asleep as you thought, though. As you pull back from Jake and move to slide out of bed, he grabs for your shirt and complains in a sleep-slurred voice, "Hey...I vwant one too..." 

"You'll get one when I come back. Jake can tide you over until then." 

You don't have to look back to know that Jake's obediently settled down to occupy Cronus. As you slip out of the door and into the main room, you glance back at them anyway. It's worth it, for the way you feel the smile spread unbidden across your face.

* * *

The promise you made to Jake wouldn't be difficult to keep even if it wasn't fully binding; you find Hal sitting on the wooden steps up into the house. You nudge the door a bit further open than the slight bit that it already was, looking down at the back of their head. 

"Why are you out here?" It's the question in your mind, but they're the one to ask it. Not by virtue of any mystical blood link this time, either—you know that it's an honest question, that they simply don't know why. 

"For you." You hesitate another heartbeat in the doorway—you promised Jake, after all, and you can feel it burning in your veins as you try to work out how to have this conversation with the threshold between the two of you—then lean down to get ahold of Hal's shoulder. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder where they got the new clothes—pitch-black now, the color of mourning or of stealth. "So what are _you_ doing out here?" 

Hal lets you pull them to their feet, lets themself be turned. The moonlight doesn't seem to tough their pale skin, not really—you don't think it's just the fact that the circle above's become an arc. The only part of them that seems bright is their eyes, and even that's not quite right—it's the light of a candle behind glass, unflickering and bright and utterly empty. 

Then they blink, and you realize that you were for a moment caught by that smooth red light...and that below those eyes, there's a thin trickle of blood running down their chin. They either see or feel you looking, and reach up to swipe at their mouth. 

"It's mine, if that's what you're wondering." 

"Oh, I know." You flash them a wry smile and tap your own lower lip with the hand that's not gripping their shoulder, right on top of that sore spot. "What hurts you hurts me, remember?" 

"Not for much longer." They grimace slightly, tongue darting out to touch the tiny mark that's not quite stopped bleeding yet. "It's fading." 

"Thank the fucking gods. What's happened to you, anyway?" But you don't need an answer; at the question Hal's eyes flash blank and bright again, and their expression shifts towards blankness for a moment, worrying at the raw place on their lip with their teeth. "...oh." 

"Don't." They shake their head and twist out of your grip in one smooth motion, stepping back far enough that you can't reach them without leaving the doorway. "I— _don't._ " 

"I wasn't planning on it." Whatever _it_ is. Also you physically cannot take the step that would let you reach them; damn your willingness to make promises to your husbands. "Come here." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

Hal hesitates, letting their eyes shut as they consider it for a moment, then admits in a voice so soft you barely hear, "Because I want to go home." 

You turn the words over in your head for a moment, and fail to find the correct meaning to go with them. "What do you mean?" 

"The less I have to give her when I go back, the better." They open their eyes again, and this time you see all the luminosity from before and none of the emptiness; there's nothing but pain there, as they give you an oh-so-carefully constructed smile. "I'll die before I betray our family, though, don't worry."

Not _I would_ , but _I will._ And although the lion's share of the reason you count them as your family is your brother's insistance on that point, their clear resignation light the spark of familiar protectiveness in your heart. (Gods _damn_ it.) 

"No." 

The look of surprise you get from them this time is _not_ contrived—their features actually flicker slightly, for a moment less a mirror of you and more....someone else. "No? You think I'd—" 

"I think you need to come the fuck in here and not think about that anymore, _Hal._ " The weight you put on their name is deliberate, and they react exactly as you'd hoped—bright eyes widen, letting you see their pupils expand just the slightest bit as the tiny rush of dopamine from being acknowleged as a trusted ally hits...and they take a step forward without even thinking, close enough for you to reach out and grab their shoulder again. 

"Dirk, wait—" Hal's protest as being touched is cut off when you tug them past the threshhold; they shudder as you wrap an arm around their shoulders. That reaction is somewhat expected; the way that they sag against you, limp enough that you instinctively grab at their shirt with your free hand? That's not. 

"Hal—" 

"I'm sorry," they mumble, starting the movement of pulling away and nearly sobbing when you don't let them finish it. "I—I'm _sorry._ She never—it's been days..." 

Days since they left the palace. Days since they left the _Empress_ , days without the attention, control, near-constant caresses. A day is not long, not even for humans, but you think of how horribly far one might stretch out for you if you were taken away from every bit of comfort you've ever known and find that it's nearly impossible to not wince. 

"Come on, Hal. Don't make me carry you." 

"I don't—where?" 

"There's a bed for you—Jake won't mind if you use it." (Well, you'll find out tomorrow when you ask for forgiveness rather than permission, but no need to add that.) "I'll sit with you until you sleep." 

Hal shudders again, pulling away just enough to look at you. You can read the doubt in their eyes—they know you don't quite trust them. 

You meet their eyes. There's no use trying to explain why you intend to lay down with them either until they sleep or one of your husbands come to fetch you—you don't know yourself, other than that Hal _is_ your family, and they're in pain, and this will help at least a little. 

Eventually, they nod and let themself be led further into the house.


End file.
